The Daddy Decision Read Free

her voice, “don’t make me sic my friends on you.”

    â€œTake the gloves, Howard,” ordered B.J. in her gruff, no-nonsense voice.
    Steffie and Tamika started in on him, too. After a short while of all four women talking at once, the poor guy apparently gave in and took the damn gloves, because his tormentors allowed him to leave.
    Cort stood in the kitchen doorway and watched the group move en masse toward the immense stone fireplace with its blazing fire. B.J. showed Laura a new tattoo on her forearm. Tamika assured Laura that she had brought the baby, who was sleeping upstairs. Hoss bragged that his three-month-old son already showed signs of aptitude for football.
    And through it all, Cort hadn’t caught a clear view of Laura yet. She was blocked from his sight by the others clustered around her.
    The tension within him gradually rose to the level of frustration. He hadn’t wanted to see her again at all, damn it. But since he’d been forced into her presence, he wanted to get the initial confrontation over with.
    He wanted to see her. Now.
    As if responding to his unvoiced impatience, Steffie drifted off toward the closet with Laura’s fleece-lined jacket, B.J. dropped down into an armchair near the doorway where Cort stood, and Tamika settled onto the sofa with her husband, leaving Laura standing alone at the hearth with Rory.
    Although he’d expected changes in her, nothing had prepared Cort for the actuality.
    He wouldn’t have recognized her. At least, not right away.
    Her hair was darker—more of a burnished honey than the bright, striking blond of her youth. It was shorter, too—no longer cascading in thick, shiny waves to her
waist, but reaching only halfway down her back and tied at her nape with a black scarf.
    She’d lost weight If the voluptuous curves he remembered still existed, he couldn’t see much of them beneath her long, bulky black sweater. Her heart-shaped face also looked slimmer, with every graceful curve and hollow more pronounced.
    She wore no makeup, as far as he could tell, and no jewelry other than small, gold-stud earrings. A major change. She’d always been glamour incarnate—wine-colored lip gloss; exotic, kohl-lined eyes; gold or silver dangling from her ears, wrists and throat, even when she wore jeans. Designer jeans, of course. Sleek-fitting. With heels.
    She now wore loose gray slacks with flat, practical boots.
    The difference went deeper than her appearance, though. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did. Something inside her had changed. Gone was the tangible sexuality that had glowed from her like a force field. Gone was the arousing air of promise, of intriguing possibilities, that had radiated from her like a perfume.
    She looked, very simply, like a slim, attractive blonde in her late twenties. Maybe early thirties. A soft-spoken schoolteacher, or a P.T.A. mom. Certainly no femme fatale. No pinup come to life. No living, breathing fantasy.
    He stared in both utter disappointment and acute relief.
    â€œI would have brought my old lady,” Rory was telling Laura, “but she had a gig, singing at a club in L.A.”
    â€œDo you still find time for your music?” Laura asked.
    â€œHey, can Rockin’ Rory’s brownies make you grin? Hell, yeah, man. I finished recording that CD we talked about last time. All original material. B.J. drew the cover art.”
    â€œOh, Rory, that’s great!” She turned toward B.J. with uplifted eyebrows. “B.J., I didn’t know that you—” Her words broke off, and she did a startled double take toward
the kitchen doorway. Her lips parted. Her gaze locked with Cort’s.
    At last. Her attention was his. About damn time.
    Everyone glanced their way, and a peculiar tension seemed to fill the room. He suddenly felt like an interloper, disturbing the serenity of their cozy little group. The big, bad wolf, poised to pounce on the sweetheart